


I Don't Blame You for Being You (But You Can't Blame Me For Hating It)

by queenklu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-20
Updated: 2010-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-12 00:57:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenklu/pseuds/queenklu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brain said fight, body said fuck. (Brain said fuck too, but meant something different.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Blame You for Being You (But You Can't Blame Me For Hating It)

**Author's Note:**

> This morning, five AM, i woke myself because i was having a nightmare that instead of Sam switching bodies with Gary, he switched bodies with Castiel. And Dean knew, and Cas knew that he knew, and I DON'T KNOW WHERE SAM WAS but it was NOT keeping a leash on Cas's newfound freedom being 'actually human' that turned him into a mad flirt around Dean. AND THEN CAS KISSED HIM, and DEAN--DEAN, beautiful FUCKED UP IN THE HEAD DEAN--kissed him back, and then DID IT WITH HIM? *HANDS* IN SAM'S BODY *HANDSHANDS* and then suddenly they were in the midwest about to get hung for sodomy, when Sammy switched back.
> 
> *HANDSHANDSHANDS*
> 
> ANYWAY, distressing. So to calm myself down i started writing a coda to Swap Meat (which is not a clever name, Kripke, fire whoever told you it was) in my head, and then, realizing i couldn't go back to sleep, i got up and wrote it down.
> 
> THIS NEVER HAPPENS TO ME.

Dean made it exactly half an hour without snapping, barely enough time to drive to an all-night diner and order coffee. Sam was apparently starving, slouched low in his seat rubbing absently on his stomach, and Dean—Dean lasted so long because he let himself debate whether or not to tell Sam about all the alcohol still coursing through his blood stream thanks to Gary.  
   
And then they sat down, and a sweet Ellen-looking lady named Gerta came to take their orders, and poor _starving_ Sam ordered a salad.  
   
“Actually, sweetheart,” Dean cut in on her list of low-fat dressings, “we’re going to have to hit the road. Sorry for your time.”  
   
“But—“ Sam protested instantly, and smacked his knees on the table as he scrambled after Dean. “Dean, wait—what the hell, man, I—“  
   
“Not here,” Dean bit out, didn’t look at him. Because if they did this now, Dean was going to destroy most of the furniture in Gerta’s diner.  
   
Dean slid into the Impala and didn’t think about Sam’s face—because it was _Sam’s face,_ no matter who was fucking wearing it—lighting up at the thought of driving. His thumb hit the volume button and kept pumping, plowing over Sam’s protest through sheer force of volume.  
   
Sam shut up. What else was fucking new.  
   
The Star Motel with its constellation theme greeted them in the cracked parking lot of its arms, grooves worn in the pavement to hug his baby’s wheels as he pulled to a stop and took extra care not to slam her doors. He didn’t wait to see if Sam followed him (he knew, bone crunching sure that he did) and flipped his key in the lock to open up the room they called Orion.  
   
“Dean?” Sam asked as the strode into the room, and yeah, Dean could see that without looking too. Wide stance, arms wide, eyes wide. “You wanna maybe explain what that was back there?”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean nodded, easy enough, turning to face his brother with his lips pinched tight. “I just didn’t want to get hauled out by the cops before we had a chance to finish this.”  
   
“Finish—? Uhh,” Sam scoffed, but not like he actually believed it, “I didn’t even get a chance to order.”  
   
“Cut the crap, Sam.” Dean stripped off his leather jacket to the tune of Sam’s smile disappearing, rolled up his sleeves to nothing at all. “Let’s have it out.”  
   
Sam watched him, wary even as his shoulders dropped. “Have what out?”  
   
“This. Us.” Dean picked his stance and held it, head held high. “I liked Gary better than you.”  
   
That…was not was Sam was expecting, written out in big block letters across his face. But just because he didn’t believe it didn’t make it sting any less. “What?”  
   
“I liked Gary better than you,” Dean said again, building speed, fighting not to bounce on his toes like a fighter in the ring.  
   
“Uh… Wow, Dean,” and there it was, belief, _hurt._ “Just…wow. I spent—how many days freaking out trying to get back to you, to my life, to my _body_ and you’re telling me you were living it up with the guy in my meat suit?”  
   
Dean flinched before he could stop himself. _Meat suit?_ Sam was really getting pissed to be using demon terminology. Good.  
   
“Yeah,” Dean let out, showing every ounce of sincerity in his body. “And you know why, Sam? You know why it took me so fucking long to realize what was going on?” No, wait, not going there. Dean sidetracked. “Gary got excited about things—he was excited about hunting, was excited about drinking, driving, sex, _hell,_ Gary got excited about _bread_. And you, Sam, don’t get excited about shit.”  
   
“Wow,” Sam let out, word rippling out through the hard tension in his shoulders. “So because—I don’t like the same music as your or—I don’t eat the same foods, suddenly I’m, what? Some unexcitable lump taking up space and your oh-so-valuable time?”  
   
“ _Yes,”_ Dean agreed, rocking forward on his heels. “Oh, except for me wanting a Dean clone to hang out with, that’s not entirely true.”  
   
Sam stared. Somehow got the words out between his teeth. “What then?”  
   
“You don’t like my music, Sam, but you don’t have a favorite of your own. You eat these salads but it’s not like you _enjoy_ them. You’re good at research but is it even something you like doing? You just sit on your ass in the car and let me and whatever comes our way drive you through life, and you don’t even have a light on at the end of the tunne—“  
   
Sam hit him. Broadside, almost enough to dislocate his jaw if Dean hadn’t been trained to move with it. Dean wiped the blood off his mouth and thought, _yes,_ fucking _finally._  
   
“This is that anger you were talking about?” he taunted, rolling the crick out of his neck to give Sam a lopsided, bloody smile. “That’s it?”  
   
Sam was breathing hard through his nose, lock of stray hair falling across his forehead as he tried to calm down, back off with his hands upraised. “I don’t want to fight you.”  
   
“Just like you don’t want red meat?” Dean was dancing like a boxer now, eager nerves jittering up and down his spine. “Just like you don’t want to get—“  
   
This time Sam missed when Dean ducked his head and slammed his brother back, his shoulder hard on Sam’s solar plexus and Sam’s shoulders punching a crack in the drywall. They’d hit just above the dresser, back of Sam’s thighs snapping the massive thing back and for one split second Dean was between his legs, pressed against his brother hard enough to feel his pulse beat, and then Sam’s weight dropped, snapping a leg clean off the dresser and unbalancing them enough that when Sam shoved Dean went down.  
   
His elbow thwacked against the threadbare carpet, Sam’s knees locking tight around his bruised ribs hard enough to—hard enough to—  
   
Dean _snarled._ No other word. His own knee jerked up, caught Sam high at the back of his ass and it took nearly everything to shove Sam over his head but fucking worth it. Dean rolled to his feet shoulders hunched, breathing hard, so furious he couldn’t hardly think straight and _bad fucking pun, bad._ Fucking _. Pun._  
   
He caught Sam across the cheekbone just as he was getting up, sent him and a framed poster crashing back to earth. His ring caught Sam hard enough to make him bleed, streak of red across his face and the knuckles he dragged across it. Then Sam was up, on his feet and _fighting_ , really _fighting_ , shouting nothing and using every trick in their book, not fighting like brothers, fighting like foes. Sam went for his weak spots—ribs, bad leg, throat—and Dean went even harder for Sam’s—lower back, that scar that scar that fucking scar.  
   
“Been kicked harder by a little girl, today,” Dean spat, and Sam broke their grapple to swing wildly at his face.  
   
“Don’t fucking—“ Sam got a grip back on him in the split second Dean was reeling, elbows pinning Dean’s arms to the night sky wallpaper suddenly solid—too solid—against his back. His face was right there, ready to snap forward in a head butt that would leave Dean seeing actual stars and then— “Don’t you fucking—“  
   
Sam’s mouth on his hit him harder than a head butt, harder than a freight train. He fought away on blind instinct screaming assault, screaming wrong, _wrong,_ he wasn’t allowed this. Same instant his hips canted out, breath came in shaky, trapped fingers locking around any piece of Sam’s skin they could get to to keep him here. Brain said fight, body said fuck.  
   
Brain said _fuck_ too, but meant something different.  
   
Dean’s leg came up and buckled Sam’s, sending them both stumbling back—forward, in Dean’s case—still locked together, and Dean—Dean couldn’t make himself stop feeding at Sam’s mouth, eating at him, Sam gulping him down. His arms were still fighting, grappling to get free of Sam’s hold on him so he could get his hands on his brother and mark him up, bruise him, hold back just as tight. He was just as strong as Sam, just not as freakishly big.  
   
Sam growled into their kiss and let him have one hand so he could wrap his own around the back of Dean’s head, holding him still, keeping him there. Dean tore at Sam’s shirt—he’d been sure he was planning on using that free hand to hit Sam, surely—and didn’t give a fuck about the seams he was ripping until he fought the damn thing down far enough it trapped Sam’s arm.  
   
Dean stole that advantage like a son of a bitch. Sam’s ass hit the bed and bounced, Dean on him so quick he followed gravity and Sam down between his legs. He got the shirt down to Sam’s wrists and twisted, tangling him up, trapping his hands at the small of his own back, probably right over that fucking scar.  
   
He had to get Sam back in his mouth. Had to.  
   
He bit at Sam’s lips one at a time, licking up the curses from Sam’s tongue. All the _God Deans_ and the _fuck, pleases_ and all the ways he fought, struggling at the fabric wrapped around his wrists. _Not a lump, now,_ Dean thought a little dazedly, and then Sam’s hips bucked up and he stopped thinking at all.  
   
“Dean,” Sam growled out, “ _Dean.”_ And then maybe the fabric gave way or maybe Sam just tore through it, but Dean found himself flat on his back with his jeans around his thighs and his shirt rucked under his armpits faster than he knew how to blink. Sam was on him faster than his skin could get cold, burning him up every place they touched, every inch he could feel Sam’s pulse beating double time against his.  
   
The groan wrenched out of him when Sam ground their hips together felt like it hurt, felt like relief in the most maddening ways it was not. That couldn’t be _all Sam_ , right? Dean bucked helplessly up into the pressure, hard press of Sam, sweat and precome damp, and Sam everywhere around him, shaking.  
   
Sam’s name had way too many ‘S’s when it came out, turned into a gasp. He couldn’t—god, how was Sam looking at him like that? How was he supposed to stand it?  
   
“Dean,” Sam let out like he’d heard him, like he could see all that, read all that, when he was still—when _they_ were still gyrating against each other like the world was going to end. Then he kissed him, pressed their bruised and battered lips together and only broke off to gasp in a shuddering breath and come, pumping his hips and all that slick into his boxers shoved so close to Dean’s that he could feel the dampness spreading, taste Sam’s come in the back of his throat and the smell of sweat and Sam and sex slammed him over the edge, left every nerve on fire and his grip on Sam spasming, pressing and releasing the bruises his fingers had already dug.  
   
Sam rolled off before Dean had to start gasping too badly for air, leaving his front feeling impossibly cold. He needed to change out of his boxers before things got really uncomfortable. He needed to find enough synapses to fire in order to move first.  
   
He needed to open his eyes and stop breathing in sync with Sam, too.  
   
“So…” Dean said, voice sounding completely fucked up, raw, “That was very Mr. & Mrs. Smith of us.”  
   
Dean’s eyes snapped open because that sound? That sound was Sam laughing. He had an arm thrown over his forehead, body angled towards Dean, broad bared chest shaking with laughter. The kind that’s high pitched and sleep deprived and borderline hysteric, the kind that ends in an “Aw…yeah,” and a couple more giggles, but _still._  
   
Dean snorted, tried to keep it to himself. “At least we found something you’re excited about.”  
   
Which just set them off again.  
   
When they calmed down Sam was the one who got up first, so Dean closed his eyes and waited for the bathroom door to shut. He must’ve drifted for a while, or maybe not that long at all, because the next thing he knew Sam was tugging off his jeans, using the denim to pull off Dean’s socks, hands moving with easy touches around his boxers until Dean met his gaze and nodded, letting Sam strip him the rest of the way. Sam dropped a warm washcloth on his belly and took their underwear to the bathroom to wash out in the sink, and maybe Dean’s brain was totally fried because it took that long to notice Sam was naked.  
   
He wiped off, dropped the cloth on the ground, dragged off his rumpled shirts and didn’t otherwise move, waiting for Sam to come back and freak out.  
   
Sam just raised his eyebrows when he did. “You’re gonna get cold.”  
   
Dean stretched, dare still in his eyes. “Gonna come keep me warm, princess?”  
   
“Only because there’s broken glass on my bed,” Sam said, peeling back the covers to climb in.  
   
Dean looked. Sure enough. “Huh. How’d that happen.”  
   
“Beats me.” Sam sighed and tugged at the blankets pinned under Dean’s body. “Seriously. Cover hog.”  
   
“Bite me.” But he moved.  
   
They didn’t cuddle. Dean wasn’t sure they knew how. But turned toward each other in some scabby motel room under cheap nearly-plastic sheets made him feel like they were really brothers for the first time in…a long damn time.  
   
“I do actually like salads,” Sam told the ceiling at one point.   
   
Dean grinned and rolled over.

  
 **THE END**   
Guess what? Entire smex scene without using dick, prick, cock or penis! IT CAN BE DONE! \OOOO/


End file.
